Search for the Whispering Light
by WaWaMakesYouHealthy
Summary: A human boy who lost everything due to a raid has his heart set out on vengeance, and vengeance only. When this gets in the way of the life he chooses, and all but one class turns their back, will he have the strength to forgive? He is just a lost soul, trying to find himself, and murder the man who took everything away from him. He will realize, however, those two don't coincide..
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own WoW. I am putting this for this opening chapter and all future chapters. I have greatly improved on my writing since I first began to write and since I am probably going to spend a lot of time at a hospital, I will be writing a lot. I will only post a chapter once it is completed, but I only work on a chapter once I get the inspiration to do so. **

**This is a prologue and just opens up my story. **

It started out like any other night – Quiet. People were getting ready to sleep, and putting out fires to prevent their small cottages from setting aflame. They all seemed oblivious to the raid preparing their final details on their plan. Hushed voices were trying to speak over another, and agitation could easily be picked up amongst keen ears. With huffs and groans, they agreed on one thing. The forest now grew silent, letting her children sing their songs – Usually it was a smooth, soft, and uplifting symphony of chirps, howls, and buzzing. Now it seemed as if everything droned together in chaos, as if nature had no rhythm. The moon was high, giving the fogs a soft, glowing touch.

The hidden figures nodded to each other; the town was dead silent, the moon was barely able to unmask the individuals. This was their queue. With their weapons drawn, they crept forward, the rustling leaves betraying their stealth as the leaves and twigs bristled at each movement.

The town was glowing with ambers, oranges, and red as the fires hungrily ate and licked the small wooden cottages. The smoke rose lazily into the air, going high in the sky. Blood littered the sand and grass, glistening by the moon. The night started out like any other night – But ended with no one to awake with the sun.

**So in all honesty I feel like making this an interactive story (Like in Goosebumps where you go to a certain page (Or in this case... Chapter...) where you pick how the story goes and end (So if you reviewers like this idea I'd upload both ways to go every time there's an upload so you can decide what to do on your adventure...) just let me know! **


	2. Chapter 2

A pre-teen boy stood atop a hill, hands clenched in small fists, his mouth shut closed as his teeth bared and salty tears that were falling from baby blue eyes before cascading down his dirty cheeks. He glared down at the silhouetted figures running rampant in the burning village, their shadows making a dance of mockery. He had barely escaped without getting caught, thanks to his parent's sacrifice. A bitter taste now resided in his mouth – his heart turning stone cold, his innocence ground into dust and was carried off by the breeze.

OoOoOoOoOoOoO

A male in his early 20's awoke as the early rays of sunshine fanned out and lit up parts of the sky. He grabbed his heavy plate armor and began to don it. Quietly, he grabbed his sword and shield and as silently as he could, crept out of the area littered with tents. His armor made a soft clanking sound with each step he took, and each movement his body made. When he left the confinements of the tent grounds he broke into a steady jog, towards the training grounds, his armor barely moving due to the fastened straps he professionally had done.

Upon arriving to the training area, he was faced with steel dummies in neat columns, mocking the alliance soldiers, in rows. He placed his keen, baby blue eyes on a dummy and unsheathed his sword from the scabbard attached to his hip, causing a gleam to reflect off of the spotless, steel blade of his sword. With his right hand he pulled his heavy shield off from his back before assuming his stance – shield raised up to protect his face and torso, and sword up to prepare an attack.

He glared at his target, ignoring the jet black hair that fell in wisps on his forehead. With a tense of his muscular calves, he charged forward in a sprint, meeting the dummy where it was staked. The sound of steel clashing against each other made resonating sounds every time the steel connected. The shield would always sound duller than the sharp echoes of the sword. Soon, the warrior had an excellent rhythm of sword and shield. He wished the dummy would have been raiders from his childhood – The thought fueled his anger and his attacks were faster, harder. He was so consumed in his training and past that he paid no mind, nor noticed a lone figure watching him, with an arrow drawn and the string taut.

The hunter released the arrow, the hissing sound of it whizzing through the air was blocked out by the clashing of the warrior's foot, causing him to cease what he was doing and look over at the silhouette perched atop a balcony overlooking the training field. The silhouette jumped down and clicked his tongue. As he shook his head, short, dirty, blonde hair strands gently whipped his face. "You need to always keep your focus, and be in tune to your surroundings. You could have easily been taken care of due to your lack of attention," the voice was deep, masculine. Knowledgeable hazel eyes gazed into blue eyes clouded with hatred. "You'll never pass your final test like that, Makarov." The tall figure left, his footsteps echoing throughout the quiet arena.

The warrior growled out, "I'll prove you wrong!" He yelled. '_You wrong… 'ong… 'ng' _It echoed in the empty area. He took another swing at the dummy in his frustration.

He panted, now finally his breath from his strenuous activity. His body felt cool as a breeze blew by and he noticed his sweat. Makarov let out a sigh of annoyance as he noticed the sun rising. Most of the soldiers were probably awake by now. He shook his head and turned back towards the dummy and began swinging wildly at the stone replica of a person – He no longer held any rhythm or tune to his hacking and slashing. His thoughts began to eat away at him _'you never receive any compliments from any of the instructors,'_ he would berate himself, '_The path of a warrior is not a wise road to travel for someone of your character.' _Those words made him the most angriest as they echoed in his head.

The bright sun was almost gone, and getting ready to trade places with the beautiful moon. Makarov only stopped to eat, then go right back to his training. As the day went on and turned into a chilly night, his form and attacks would get slower. He laid his heavy plate armor to the side and would pick up where he left off, his body less sluggish. Every time Makarov would swing his muscles would flex, showing his discipline and dedication to his training.

Eventually everyone had retired off to their cots – Only Makarov and the taunting moon stayed awake. He would make one last rotation of his attacks before he would retire. However, his body had other plans. As he made to swing, exhausted had seeped into his arms and the sword fell out of his grasp when he raised his arm up to attack. He half dragged everything to his tent and laid it inside. Makarov looked out towards the silver horizon and broke out into a run. His arms may be too tired to swing but his legs could still carry him. He only stopped at the edge of a lake. He pulled off his under armor and jumped into the freezing water. The water tightened his muscles gently. He felt himself relax, however, as he cleaned himself off. Once he was done he waded out, and let a shiver run through his body at the temperature changes. His wet skin attracted the clothes and began to compliment his physique by keeping a tight hold on his body. He jogged back at a slower pace back to his tent and stumbled into the cot, falling to the immediate embrace of sleep.

Makarov once again awoke as soon as the first rays of light broke through the sky. Of all the trainees, Makarov's fighting style was the most vicious, more wild than the rest. He had potential, he was just too consumed in his anger and vengeance; and the instructors knew it. The elders would give instructions to the instructors, telling them they only passed tactical, charismatic, and level-headed soldiers with heart, not wild pigs only slaughtered for amusement. Though they all noted his dedication, it would not ease their conscious passing him into the militia if he'd get himself killed. They already had blood stained hands from passing phenomenal soldiers who became too cocky. The final test, however, was only next week, yet the elders had little hope his fighting style would change.

Makarov took one day off in between his training and the final test. It was the day before he would have to perform in front of the elders to attain their blessing. He only stretched and went for a swim when the sun was at its highest, warming up the water to a nice, soothing degree. The night before his test he polished his armor and sharpened his blade; he sat in a circle around the campfire, but chose not to speak to anyone. _'getting too close is the worst – you're setting yourself up for betrayal, heartaches from death, and the worry if the bottle had become their new deity' _his mind would rationalize.

The morning of the test, Makarov put on his armor and made sure everything was nice and snug before tying his sheathed sword to his right hip and securely attached his shield to his back. When he was set and ready, he walked out of the tent, his helm squished between his arm and hip. He, like all the other trainees, walked with anxiousness in every step. They had trained for months to be able to get to where they are now. Those who left families behind were more than ready to finish what they needed to, and be able to serve their king, and families. With a deep breath, Makarov stepped into a building, dimly lit via torches on the wall – This was the beginning of the rest of their lives.


End file.
